Reminds me of The Three Hundred, the Spartan army that held up the Persians at Thermopylae. Kind of apt because the Greeks had that democracy thing going. A democracy of the elite only, but still better than the Persians who had an absolute monarch which is certainly what Trump aims to be. Not so apt in that none of these hold an office, nor do they intend to put themselves on the line by running for it, they are merely going to back as yet unnamed candidates who oppose Trump, and how important is their backing going to be if their biggest name is Christine Todd Whitman?
Also I note that they are not going to release their statement until Thursday after Liz gets the boot. That may be a strategic move since why begin with a resounding defeat.
But even if see their cause as doomed, I nevertheless am rooting for them. The most hopeful sign that I see is that they are hinting at forming a new party if/when they do not topple Trunp. And this seems the best prospect, because the current officeholders have hitched their wagons to the Trump star and they will ride that tiger no matter what.
As odious as I find regular republicans, they are way better than Trump.
And now to Catfish where we learn about White Sox baseball.
But I have to say, being the
markup guy certainly agreed with me, kidding around with the guys I got the
numbers from. One of the things I didn’t
like too much was everybody was calling me Hula Girl, that wasn’t dignified,
but it was all in good fun, and kind of ironic I think, like calling a fat guy
Slim, after I wrote the numbers on the clipboard, I’d say “Well I guess I’ll
just hula on to the next station,” and I’d wave my hands around a little, and
I’d get guffaws.
And I wasn’t tired at all at the end of the shift, a quick shower and I was off to the great wall, and up at the bar ready for that parade of Old Styles, but as good as that sounds, it wasn’t all that good, kind of boring actually, same old faces, same old stories. Chasing babes, that’s what I should have been doing, but this Gina thing had kind of fixated me, didn’t want any stories coming back to her, not until after I’d scored, then I’d see what the playing field looked like.
Friday I went out to practice feeling fit as a fiddle, ready to take on something, now that I wasn’t worn out. Okay Ron had centerfield, he was pretty good, if a ball was to him he got it, but he didn’t have the range, didn’t get a good jump, balls fell to the right and left of him that he really should have gotten to. But he was good enough I suppose. So I staked out my position in right field. Not that many balls hit to right field, but you needed that strong arm out there for the sacrifice flies where you can just power it in, one hop it into the catcher where he just holds it bold and white in that dirty mitt and slams it into the runner and a run becomes an out.
Got a couple guys out too, well I would’ve got them out if our catcher wasn’t so crappy. The ball was right to him, bounced right into his glove and then bounced right back out again. Had a good range too, moved to my left more than a right fielder usually does, because Ron needed some help. It’s the centerfielder’s job to call the ball, if he says he’s got it the other fielders are supposed to back off, but damn, any ball even remotely near him he cried, “I got it,” and sometimes I could tell he didn’t have a chance at it. Well I didn’t want to violate that rule about the centerfielder being the captain of the outfield, but a couple times I had my eye right on the ball and I could see exactly where it was going and I took a look at Ron and I could tell by the way he was moving that he would never get to it, so what could I do, I just rushed in and got it, and Ron was maybe fifteen feet away floundering like a guy lost in a blizzard. Ron didn’t say anything but I could tell he didn’t like it. But he got his glory back when he stepped up to the plate, damn he could smash the ball, while myself I was flailing away like a guy swatting at flies.
I thought we didn’t look too bad, but walking back to the bunkhouse with Dan, I learned that he felt otherwise. “What a bunch of losers,” he said.
“You think so?” I asked.
“Damn right,” he answered and then we walked about a half a block in silence, and then he said, “You know what the problem is?” And before I could think of any answer he supplied it, “They’re a bunch of damn Cub fans.”
“Cub fans?”
“Fucking Cub fans. All they want to do is drink beer and have a good time. Maybe make one good play to impress their girlfriends so that maybe they’ll give them a good fuck when they get home that night, and if we lose ten to nothing they won’t give a shit, they’ll sleep like fucking babies.”
Damn he had me pegged alright. But I just nodded like I agreed with him, because he was really pissed, kicking stones and crap off the sidewalk, his hands deep in his pockets his head down and red.
“Well shit Dan, what’s so wrong with that?” I was trying to lighten him up a little. “Isn’t that what this whole thing is about, a little fun?”
“Fun?” and he stopped dead on the sidewalk. “Fun?” he repeated, “Is losing fun?”
He was so angry, I’d never seen him like this. I just wanted to get along, “No, I suppose not,” I answered.
“You suppose?” he came back. His hand was still in his glove and before I could react it was up and he smacked me right across the face. What the fuck? Me?
It wasn’t that much of a hit really, but the surprise, I staggered back a little.
He reached over to steady me. “Look, here’s the thing,” and he took a breath, steadied himself, took his hand off me with a little pat by way of apology. “Here’s the thing, here’s the thing you Cubs fans have to understand. You can drink all the beer you want, you can fuck the eyes out of your girlfriends when you get home, but when you’re on the field, you’re only there for one reason, and that’s to win the game, to win the fucking game.”
We were both standing there on the sidewalk staring at each other, both kind of wide-eyed, but after that last point he calmed down a little and began walking back towards the bunkhouse and I followed him.
“You know, when I was with the White Sox, at that spring training and behind the plate, and that ball bounced up into my glove I could see the runner coming in and I could see his spikes coming in high, I could have stepped back, saved my leg, let him score the winning run.”
“But you were behind ten to nothing.”
He looked at me a little funny, like he hadn’t gotten his story straight, but then he just went on like I do when some little discrepancy appears in one of my stories, “But the point is I didn’t, I stood there. I did my job, I put the tag on, that fucker was out. I played White Sox baseball. That’s what you Cub fans have to learn, White Sox baseball.”
I took that a little personal. “I thought I made some pretty good catches out there in the outfield,” I came back with.
“You did,” he allowed, “I’ve been thinking of maybe I should put you in centerfield,” and I felt pretty good about that, “But what’s with this?” he came back with and did a pantomime of one of my wild swings.
“Can’t hit them all,” I responded lamely.
“Can’t hit any of them with your eyes shut,” he answered.
Well fuck, that’s the same thing that stupid high school coach used to say, on my ass all the time about it. Didn’t like it one little bit, didn’t like it either when Dan brought it up. “Just the way I swing,” I said.
“Well maybe it shouldn’t be. I think maybe it’s something we should work on.”
Work on? I didn’t want to work on anything.
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